Rumor Has It
by Ryuuko1
Summary: There was a rumor, amidst both Templars and Mages, that in the days just after the Circle had been formed and the Templars given their sacred duty, Knight-Commander Greagoir and the First Enchanter Irving had been lovers.


**Author**: I hate my friend. She got me addicted to this blasted game. I ran the Broken Circle q-chain for the first time (hello newb) and the final words of Greagoir to Irving immediately had my slasher senses tingling. Which resulted in this, and the possibility of oodles more, since the two of them have begun to amuse me beyond all reason.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, you hear me! Nothing!

**~Rumor Has It~**

There was a rumor, amidst both Templars and Mages, that in the days just after the Circle had been formed and the Templars given their sacred duty, Knight-Commander Greagoir and the First Enchanter Irving had been lovers.

Of course, they _obviously_ hadn't been First Enchanter and Knight-Commander at that time; however, some persisted, regardless of evidence to the contrary, that when people said Irving was the First Enchanter, he literally was _the_ First Enchanter, and no-one could remember a time when Sir Greagoir _wasn't_ the Knight-Commander. Neither man made comment on the rumor—legend—whatever it could be considered, since it seemed to have been around as long as they had—which both lent it credit and disregard.

Some pointed out that nothing needed to be said if it _wasn't_ the case, but others countered that maybe they didn't want to say anything because it was _true_. Then again, if there _had_ been something between them, it obviously would have ended badly (considering how much and how heatedly they argued with each other), and since the Tower was still standing and both men were still alive, there was obviously nothing between them in the past or present.

The story amused Irving and exasperated Greagoir, but they had decided when the rumor first began to circulate that ignoring it would be the best option. It leant them both an air of mystery and gave them an untouchable emotional distance, which relieved Greagoir.

"It's funny, how it comes and goes," Irving said idly as he stood beside Greagoir, supervising the clean-up from the abomination disaster.

"That little slip-up on my part sparked someone's memory," Greagoir drawled as he crossed his arms. "Showing concern for a mage—what was I thinking?"

Irving gave the floor a small, tired smile. "And I did what I always have done—cover your backside."

Greagoir shot him a dry, dirty look as a comfortable silence fell between them.

Greagoir caught Irving grimacing as his Templars took away a bag that contained the remains of an abomination—the remains of what had once been a mage—and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, his fingers tapping lightly against it. "How close?"

"Pardon?"

Greagoir looked over to Irving and caught and held his tired, sad eyes. "How close did you come to being one of _those_?"

Irving grimaced and ran a hand over his eyes, his shoulders slumping forward under strain of terrible memories. "Closer than I would have liked. I am, perhaps, not as powerful as I once was."

Greagoir's mouth tightened into a thin line and he glared at the one body no-one would touch.

"It must have been hard on you, too, Greagoir."

Greagoir frowned and looked over to Irving, who was giving him a familiar inscrutable look. "What, the waiting? The not knowing? The _helplessness_?"

Irving paused and placed a hand carefully on Greagoir's shoulder. "We are both getting old, Greagoir, and you simply did what your training and vows dictated you should. Better that all the mages should die than demons be unleashed across Ferelden."

Greagoir frowned at Irving's hand before he sighed heavily and casually shrugged the contact off.

"We are indebted to the Grey Wardens," Irving said as his gaze turned back to the clean-up. "Should I expect you to stand by me when the final battle against the Archdemon comes?"

Greagoir leaned back slightly as his hands clasped themselves lightly behind him. "Beside you, Irving? Never. You know very well that the Archdemon won't be the real threat you need to look out for. With so many demons nearby and so many exhausted mages, someone needs to make sure that worst doesn't come to worst."

Greagoir caught the lightest, softest of chuckles from Irving and valiantly fought the small smile that pulled at his lips.

"I think that I will not see the other side of this Blight," Irving said quietly as he scratched at his beard.

Greagoir nodded, his armor clinking dully against itself. "Our time has passed. The young Grey Wardens have shown me that."

"Alas, then, the trainees will no longer have our tale to amuse themselves with," Irving said, humor touching his voice.

Greagoir snorted. "Bah, our demise will make it all the worse. We will become mythical figures, every aspect of our lives examined by those who write the history-books, and I have no doubt that they'll include _that_ in our stories."

"Do you think that they'll guess correctly?"

Greagoir shook his head slowly and murmured, "I doubt that."

Irving hummed before he said, "I suppose you're correct."

"Of course I am," Greagoir answered, which provoked a chuckle out of Irving.

Every body save the Pride Demon's was cleared away, which made Greagoir sigh in frustration and Irving rub his eyes. "I suppose they'll want _us_ to take care of _that_," Greagoir muttered darkly as he walked towards the abomination.

"Who else?" Irving replied as he fell into step with the Knight-Commander.

"You may go," Greagoir said firmly to the remaining Templars, who saluted before leaving _very_ quickly.

The Knight-Commander heard Irving dismiss his mages in a similar manner before they were left alone with a corpse and each other.

"Let's get this over with," Greagoir growled and Irving gave him a wry, understanding smile.

A flicker of thought and a surge of power later, Greagoir and Irving stood in a purified room, the walls purged of demon-growth and the Pride Demon vaporized into nothingness.

"We have always made a good team," Irving said as he turned to the door, Greagoir taking a position just behind and left of the First Enchanter.

"When not trying to kill each other," the Knight-Commander replied dryly.

"There is that," Irving conceded with a nod of his head.

The two reached the door that would take them out into the Tower proper, but came to a halt.

"Greagoir."

"Yes?"  
>"You were the one assigned to deal the killing blow should I have failed my Harrowing, weren't you?"<p>

Greagoir nodded. "I was…surprised that I wasn't disappointed when you succeeded. I had seen other Templars have to kill mages who failed, but…"

"I was too much of a thorn in your side even then. You wanted to kill me when I was myself, not the thrall of some demon."

Greagoir felt his mouth twist into a wry smile. "Perhaps. That was, what, 40 years ago?"

"And it's been 35 since we decided that being stuck with each other wasn't a particularly bad thing," Irving commented, amusement tingeing his voice.

Greagoir snorted and firmly pushed open the door. "After you, First Enchanter."

Irving nodded serenely. "By your leave, Knight-Commander."

Greagoir rolled his eyes, unconscious of the small, affectionate smile that pulled at his lips.

He could never—_would_ never—tell Irving how much of a heart-attack he had suffered at the thought that someone else would have to be the one to kill Irving. They had been through too much, argued too much, _felt_ too much about each other for Irving to die without Greagoir nearby. He knew as well as the First Enchanter did that their time was up, that this Blight would be the end of them both—the end of their era, and the dawning of something better than the both of them. The two young Grey Wardens and their companions would bring about change unlike anything since Ferelden had won its freedom, while he and Irving would fade into the mists of the history books, noted for nothing, simply names in two different lists.

It hurt to think that he would be so easily forgotten, but perhaps it was best that way.

"You're thinking too hard, Greagoir. Focus on the present. Our deaths will come soon enough. Before then, we have a Circle to repair and a war to prepare for," Irving said, his voice cutting through Greagoir's morose thoughts.

"How _do_ you do it?" Greagoir muttered darkly, but the soft understanding that briefly flit through the mage's eyes was shamefully comforting.

"You're an open book," Irving answered, which Greagoir responded to with a condescending shake of his head.

"Only to you. Only to you. But, we have a Tower to clean up and need to reassure others that the demonic threat is indeed over."

"No rest for the weary, hm?" Irving half-asked.

"Just move, mage," Greagoir replied, relief, calm, and purpose descending on him. The worst had nearly come to pass, but they endured, as they would until the breath stilled in their lungs and their hearts bled out on whatever battlefield they chose.

Until then, Greagoir would simply have to deal with keeping the most precious person to him at arm's length for the sake of both their sanities—not to mention the sanity of all those who served beneath them.


End file.
